


Made to Break

by failsafe



Series: A Bad Idea [1]
Category: Kara no Kyoukai | The Garden of Sinners
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Lemon, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairings, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7633723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsafe/pseuds/failsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several thousand words during which Touko takes Mikiya's virginity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made to Break

Looking back on it, she had always known that it would not last for long. Less than a month, less than a week, only one night? But what did it matter? All that had mattered was that it was never going to last. Neither of them would have wanted that, and she wouldn't be here that long anyway.  
  
It was unremarkable, how quickly it faded from attention when the disused, incomplete building she called an office became more frequently occupied and quite a bit more noisy. As it should have. Sometimes, she wondered if he would ever tell anyone, if it would weigh on his conscience. If he could manage to keep it quiet, she liked to think, smirk on her lips, that he might one day be thought a prodigy.  
  
For her part, she knew she would never talk about it again. There was no need. He hadn't gotten skittish around her, at least, and she thought she would like to keep it that way for as long as _this_ – all of this – lasted. Some nights he was still the last one there, in the office, and she would work quietly at her desk and he would sit quietly on the sofa. Sometimes, he would get up to retrieve something without prompting, so quiet that only the movement caught out of the corner of her eye could draw her in. With the natural caution of any living magus, she could not help but glance up when he did that.  
  
His typical black sweater always covered him modestly, but from time to time her eyes would track the line and the stretching from his flank all the way up to his arm when he reached for something. He had elegant fingers and graceful movements. He was polite and obedient. He kept at his work, even when some men would have been scared away – some men would have been scared away three times over. Perhaps he would have been had he any better sense of self preservation.  
  
She had put it behind her. It had been nice and then gone. He had done everything she had asked, and she had held up her end of the bargain in every way she could. Some transactions were as simple and easy as that. But then, sometimes when he moved like that, and just for a moment she would remember... why in hell it had seemed like a good idea...  
  


 

◇

  
  
  
He sits on the couch with a stack of papers in his lap, back to her, rifling through them with patience and the occasional huff of frustration. There is absolutely nothing unusual about this arrangement, except insofar as his presence is not entirely unusual. Hiring him had felt like the only suitable congratulations she could offer after he had spent so much time and energy successfully tracking her down. More talented men might never have done it. They would have grown bored first.  
  
And maybe it's boredom that draws her eyes up at a certain point. She is sick of work, not ready to sleep, and notes that a clock in her cluttered office is ticking onwards toward _2_.  
  
“Don't you have anyone to go home to, Kokutou?” she asks mildly. It is an aimless question, the kind to which she already thinks she knows the answer. It hadn't been discussed, though, and so she asks it. Cigarette clutched tight between two fingers, she taps it in a practiced, automatic movement. Ash and embers fall into tired, yellowed, stained cut crystal.  
  
She takes a deep draw from it, holding onto the calming, toxic smoke for a long moment – several heartbeats – before she exhales completely. She leans back in her chair. At the same time, his posture tenses. His shoulders rise up toward his ears, then he corrects this and straightens up his neck. Shoulders are forced back down into their proper place, and he shuffles the stack of paper back into neater order.  
  
“I'm sorry, Miss Touko. I apologize. I did not realize how late it was getting,” he says. The papers tap-tap-tap against his probably-rigid knees.  
  
Touko leans back in her chair. She lifts her legs, ankles crossing atop her desk. She deftly avoids dropping her pant leg down into a kindling spark. Her casual posture shifts around some things on top of her desk, but she can tend to them later. She takes another, brief draw from the cigarette. It is almost gone now.  
  
“No need to apologize to me. I'm a magus. It's not like we really _sleep_ ,” she says dryly, occupying the punctuation of her reply with a final draw and mashing the butt of the cigarette out into its crystal tray.  
  
“I'll believe that,” Kokutou replies, sarcasm wrapped around it like the gentle clinging of his clothes. It's warm out, but something makes her think it seems a little cold in here.  
  
“Watch it,” she chides him as she leans back again. She folds her arms around the back of her neck, catching beneath the drape of her ponytail.  
  
“Yes, Miss Touko,” he says. Then he is standing, his back still to her. He places the papers somewhere in front of him, neat in two piles, ready for continued review. He dusts himself of something, of nothing, and seems ready to fetch the few things he carries with him to wherever it is he goes at night.  
  
“You didn't answer my question,” Touko points out. Something in the pit of her stomach gnaws with complaint, with disappointment that he is leaving. She does not deign to move from where she sits, her feet propped comfortably, but she makes this small effort to keep him talking. That earns her his eyes as he turns around. He has picked up his bag from somewhere and holds it back over his shoulder looped on two fingers – college dropout and still ever the schoolboy.  
  
“Ah, well. I suppose the answer is 'no.' No one is waiting for me. No one will notice I'm arriving home late,” Kokutou dutifully explains. She notes that he adds a sad little smile to it, the reassurance for anyone and everyone who might hear him that it's alright, that no one should pity him. That look that means no one ever will. Touko doesn't pity him, either. Instead, she looks away from that smile and pulls her feet back. They find the floor beneath her desk and her hands brace against it. She looks left and right over the surface of it. She is not frantic, never frantic, but she is searching for something.  
  
It frustrates her. When she wants something, it usually presents itself in a flash of inspiration. She is usually able to put it to pen and paper, to shape and form, to make it happen. She should not be searching for something. That's what she hired him for.  
  
Calm returns to her in the instant it is about to vanish entirely, giving way to a pointless kind of anger. She looks up again, and he is turning slowly away, headed for the door.  
  
She had not been _searching_ for something exactly. She understands all at once. She had been trying to find what she needed to lay her hands on to make something. Normally, this is pen, paper, string, clay, or porcelain. Sometimes bricks, mortar, stone, and the power which flows through her own body. This time, it is something much more rare than any of those things – at least to her. She knows when she steps out from behind her desk and starts to easily follow him to the door. It's _skin_.  
  
“Are you sure you should be going out this late at night? Might be some dangerous things and people out there,” she says mildly. If she had been the kind to wince at her own words very often, she might have, but she isn't and he is too inexperienced – she thinks – to hear how her words are reaching.  
  
“They won't bother me,” Kokutou assures her. He smiles more easily, less a hollow mask, as he takes up an umbrella he seems to carry almost all the time from by the door. Judging from the view out the window, he won't need it when he leaves tonight.  
  
“Like your own bed?” she asks, another question that would have quickly become embarrassing had he not been such a young man.  
  
“Well, I never really thought about it—” Kokutou says. His closed umbrella lifts up as he uses some free fingers to rub at his temple back into his soft, simply cut hair. She is close enough now that she will have no more need for silly excuses. She prefers this, the direct approach. She notes, looking at his, that she is not wearing her glasses.  
  
She reaches out, gently tugging the length of the umbrella, its swishing folds, back down toward the floor.  
  
“You don't have to leave,” she explains to him plainly. The slight widening of his eyes tells her that he needs her to say this, and suddenly the words come in a way that seems less foolish.  
  
“Is... there something else you need, Miss Touko?” he asks. He has backed himself to the wall by the door. His bag slumps until he needs to adjust his wrist and let it hang down. His body has decided to be nervous, whether his mind has caught up to the notion or not.  
  
“Maybe,” she allows, charitably. She reaches out for his hand, for the handle of his bag. She reaches beneath it and her fingers play along his. They entwine, then disentangle, all with the appearance of business as she takes his bag from him. There may be a moment of hesitation, but he relinquishes it to her grasp – trusting.  
  
She leans down slightly, neatly stowing the bag back against the wall by the door, by his shoes that he has not had time to retrieve. She has leaned closer to his chest and notices the hitch of his breathing when she straightens up – slight, like a burst of effort followed by practiced, almost athletic calm.  
  
“Miss Touko?” he asks again, confused and searching for a question.  
  
A smile tugs at her lips a little. Casually, slowly, she looks ever so slightly up into his eyes. He is taller, but not even slightly intimidating, and has barely earned it. She glances at his other hand, tightly grasping the handle of the umbrella which is touched to the floor as a support, like a cane. She does not leave his eyes alone – not for long.  
  
Gently, she reaches up and brushes four fingertips along his cheekbone. She reaches up to his temple with a couple of them, brushing just beneath the frame of his glasses. Dipping back down then reaching above, she traces over it and back into his hair, soothing. He is staring at her with wide, almost frightened eyes. Almost frightened, almost pitiful, but she does not feel the thrumming survival instinct, anger, or guilt typically associated with going in for a kill when she can be bothered with a momentary correspondence with her something that resembles a conscience. She thinks she sees something like interest there, too.  
  
“Have you ever been with a woman before, Kokutou?” she asks him softly. She has no intention of embarrassing him, though. She is twenty-seven and he is nineteen. She is a magus, covered in blood, and he is just a dutiful boy. She knows the probable answer, and if it isn't true, it isn't the answer that's important. Before he can make a sound, her lips are on his. Still and chaste for just a moment, they hush and coax him into silence.  
  
She thinks that hand is still rigidly holding onto his umbrella.  
  
She nods just a little, starting a soft parting movement with her lips. She finds the inside of his mouth just a little wet, his shocked-still lips faintly chapped.  
  
She does not let it linger for very long at first, in case it is the first time. The last thing she needs is panic, or worse, a teenager fainted on her floor. She has hoped he will not become a liability, and if he is going to become one, she does not want to be the direct cause of it. Lately, she has had no desire to get her hands dirty in such a way.  
  
“Uhm—”  
  
She hears him make some attempt at an answer. She hushes him again with another light parting of his lips with hers. And another. And a third. Each lasts just a little longer than the last, and she thinks she begins to feel him relax into it. When she is ready to probe for more of an answer from his body rather than his confused and addled mouth and brain, she hears a very loud _sound_ – namely, the handle of an umbrella haphazardly hitting the floor.  
  
She pulls back and slows just long enough to smile against his lips – amused, sharp, and a little bit wicked. She feels him breathe, the pace heightened consistently now, the same as it would be if he'd run away from his. He isn't that she can tell.  
  
“Yes?” she asks him, prompting the answer to an entirely different question. She does not know if he understands, but after giving him an instant to shake his head if he meant _'no,'_ she closes any gap in which he might find time to speak. In answer, she feels an unsure hand lift to her waist, touching the crisp, wrinkling white fabric of her shirt. It pats a little out of rhythm, touching and drawing away, before finally settling into place. She tiptoes a little, however unnecessarily, and parts his lips a little more urgently.  
  
His hand grips at her shirt. It stays there. It does not try to push her away. She thinks that is all she needs to know.  
  
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is aware that while there is no one waiting at home for him, he is waiting for someone. She knows that there is someone, far away and not very far at all, lying in a bed somewhere between life and death. He has spoken of her. He cannot help it. Touko understands that there is a reason her dolls had drawn him in, that he sees something of his ordinary life in their uncanny resemblance to something, someone he loves.  
  
She knows all of this. And yet she cannot find any sense of betrayal, any hint of regret to feel. She could blame a broken moral compass, years of bitter disappointments, all this time spent forgetting and trying to make something different. Or she could believe that there is nothing to betray, that he would know if there was, that he would stop her. He is dutiful, upright, and normal.  
  
With her lips against his, with his hand steadily grasping her waist, she can almost see why they love him.  
  
She can almost hold onto the thought.  
  
She cannot taste any guilt in his mouth, even when she lightly dips against his tongue.  
  
Mostly, she tastes coffee and smoke. She knows one of them is only her own.  
  
The thought of her breath tainting his, of his finally knowing what _bad_ cigarettes taste like, tightens a complicated, patient little knot in the pit of her stomach.  
  
He does not push her away, but she pulls herself away. She pauses for the space of two breaths, deciding what to do. In the momentary stillness, her gaze drops down to the front of his pants.  
_  
To the point_ , she decides abruptly. She reaches out with one hand and finds his belt. She begins to work it free, only using the other hand when she presses in against his abdomen just a little to free the metal post that fastens through the notch.  
  
“Miss Touko, this is—” Mikiya says, but it is his own hesitation rather than her interruption that stops him. He is watching her hands. He is breathless. He makes a little motion of his neck and head to try and brush hair back from his eyes. His thumb worries at her waist, and it seems sweet.  
  
“Fine?” Touko suggests, sounding almost bored. Then in a motion that seems to be so fast it almost scares him, she pulls out the belt, drawing it away from each of its loops. It hits the floor with all the grace the umbrella had.  
  
“If you say so,” he says, and she sees a hint of a sheepish smile when he shyly manages to look her in the eye. He is trying to be brave, and she hears that little bit of dryness in his tone. She knows then, for sure, that he'll be alright.  
  
Her thumb springs back to work and unfastens the button at the top of his pants. The nail taps lightly, nudging the zipper down just a little bit. She pauses to reach down, to cup her hand and to feel through the thicker layers of his clothing. She watches his face while she does it.  
  
His eyes close in a perfect kind of unison.  
  
“You like that?” she asks, just barely bothering to feign surprise, nearly insulting with the lack of much effort.  
  
“I... think it's obvious—” he murmurs when he seems to remember that he can speak. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, dried from heavy breathing.  
  
“Is it?” she asks, thumb working, hand holding close, giving him just a moment to to let his erection build against the distant warmth of her hand. Giving him just a moment to _want_ the pants off.  
  
He nods when he notices that she is watching for a response and apparently will not settle for none.  
  
“Sometimes all you have to do is ask,” she notes, as if she were giving him casual advice from much greater distance behind her desk.  
  
“I... would never have thought to,” he admits.  
  
“No. I know you wouldn't,” she says. She looks at his eyes and grants him a rare, friendly hint of a real smile, unadorned by sarcasm, sadism, amusement, fatalism, pretense.  
  
“Miss Touko—” he starts with an intonation that surprises her until her face goes placid for an instant. He is trying to ask, trying and brave.  
  
“You must really need it,” she taunts mildly as she recovers, making quick work of the rest of the zipper. Then both thumbs work and after just a moment his pants are lower on his slender hips. Back up, her thumbnails just barely scrape against his skin when she works the second layer down, too, until the thicker patch of hair is just visible past a little line leading the way down. Then she trusts her wrist to push the fabric the rest of the way down. Quick, taking his erection into her hand as soon as she finds it, Touko pushes down and coaxes it free.  
  
Finally, she catches another glimpse of his face. His jaw has slacked. She tightens her grip just a little and lets her cradling fist move up and down his length just once. Judging by the momentary heaviness of his eyelids, she thinks this is the first time he has felt another's hand on him before.  
  
His hand is a little in her way, so she leans into it just a little to let him know it's okay to drop it down as she goes a little off center. She notes that his free hand has splayed back against the wall lightly, seeking something cool, solid, and familiar. Only, at a time like this, she doubts there is little familiarity to be found. Even with whatever compassion she can muster, there is little she can do about that.  
  
With her body shifted out of the way, she works her wrist just a little, the way she is certain he _must_ be used to. Not too much, too fast is the only way she can think to help him – and herself, come to think of it.  
  
She watches her hand and his body's reaction to it – the way the slack skin grows tighter, the way it still moves with the movement of her hand. She feels its warmth, hotter than the rest of him. The tip is more flushed but still dry as best she can tell. She glances up to his face, sees him softly bite at his lip. _Good_ – not too desperately easy, then.  
  
She slows her hand's movement, not stopping too abruptly as she lets the movement cease. In what might have been a pantomime of comfort, she reaches up with her free hand and brushes along his jaw and cheek, leveling his chin enough to look at her as she steps back around in front of him. She leans in toward his bowed head. Their foreheads are close – not quite touching – and she can see his dark hair even in the corner of her eye for an instant.  
  
“Would you like to touch me, Kokutou?” she asks.  
  
His eyes snap up, blue and big from how close she is. He glances down at her body, dumbly nods, then stops. He stares at her like he doesn't know where to begin.  
  
“Unbutton my blouse,” she tells him, the same as any other instruction she would have given him. Granting him some sense of normalcy or telling herself that this _is_ normal.  
  
His hand reaches out but then he draws it back like he is concerned the first button, near the first faint rise of her breasts, might burn him.  
  
“One at a time,” she coaxes.  
  
His hand returns and his thumb tries. The first one comes undone, because he is not one to not try his best. Then, she notices that the second is a little harder for him. He is already down over the clear rise of her breasts, and she can tell that his hands are faintly shaking. He lifts both of them, trying to use both to complete his task.  
  
Rather than coddling him, Touko lifts her arms and folds them behind her head casually, stretching and getting them out of the way. If it pushes her chest out at all, it is incidental, and not something she is going to concern herself about.  
  
“That's it,” she says – sounding almost bored again. “One at a time.” Her eyes don't look bored. They are watching as her shirt parts and gives way by no effort of her own. It's been a while.  
  
When finally there are no buttons left and both sides of the shirt fall to either side like dampened wings, Kokutou seems to find the connection between the rest of his body and his hands. The right one in particular reaches out and cups at the left cup of her bra. She notes that she can feel her own slightly elevated pulse when he does that.  
  
“You see? Not so bad,” she tells him.  
  
His arm tenses like he believes she might be scolding him, but then he hesitates. He looks at her before timidly pulling his hand away.  
  
“It's not, is it?” he asks.  
  
“Do what you want with them,” she asks, with a sudden burst of momentary laughter that surprises even her.  
  
He blinks a few times, then looks down at her bra with mild consternation. He nods, accepting the charge without quibbling about motive. His hand searches at the gently slanted edge of the left cup and slides his fingers inside.  
  
She feels the warmth of them brushing across her skin, starting work on making the nipple hard at its center. She breathes in audibly and otherwise patiently waits to react. He draws the warm, soft weight of her breast upward and his knuckles press down. He apparently does pay attention. The cup gives way and she feels it push up beneath the weight of her breast, rather than covering it. Her chest is splotched with a momentary flush. One breast covered, the other one not, and his eyes intently on the one he means to touch – for a second she loses any defensive, protective cynical edge and just wonders, just – mildly, she tells herself – wants.  
  
His thumb at fingers play at her nipple, oh so gently at first, but he feels the way it hardens at his touch and almost before he could know it he lightly pinches at it. Never cruelly, only curious and enthralled. Touko grants him a little sound of encouragement, not helpless but pleased.  
  
“May I—?” he starts to ask, so formal and wide-eyed when he glances at her. So innocent, however he is occupied.  
  
“Whatever you want,” she insists, knowing Mikiya doesn't have a cruel bone in his body. Even if he had, she has known far crueler.  
  
He nods, casts his eyes down, then pauses for a moment. His thumb draws away and his fingers hold her breast up lightly, steady and even beneath its weight. She might have known but still gasps softly in something like surprise when bows his head. He looks almost reverent, and the first couple of kisses to the edge of her areola feel reverent too. Then, his tongue flattens, softens, and swipes across the hardened tip of her nipple. It draws another full, sharp breath in and out of her. His tongue drags again, then rests a little as his lips take a turn – sucking into his mouth.  
  
For some reason, Touko is glad that he doesn't see when she closes her eyes for a second. Her hand comes up to the nape of his neck and works up into the back of his hair, holding him there gently for a moment. Her fingers scrub lightly, aimlessly, never drawing tight enough to grip. It takes him a moment to have his fill of the feeling, and when he does, she looks down. Reddened and hardened and so fully taken into his mouth, her nipple stands pert – hard and somehow softened again it seems – and she feels a tingling twinge lower than the pit of her stomach, notably and undeniably between her legs.  
  
“Good,” she tells him. Another answer she might have felt silly about if he'd been anyone else. He looks at her with expectant, brightened eyes. He's more than ready to learn, and it's a little endearing.  
  
“Do you want—?” he offers.  
  
“No,” she tells him kindly with a small shake of her head, assuming that he is tempted to do it again. As consolation, she leans in and kisses him deeply. She tastes his tongue without as much hesitation, making sure he knows what it feels like each time she deliberately, slowly dips into his mouth. Her hand had steadied at his jaw to anchor him, but then both hands drop down to her sides. Then they crisscross at her back, distracted but practiced hands unfastening her bra. Tonight, she won't put him through that particular gauntlet.  
  
With a forward shrug, Touko drops her bra to the floor between them. Distractedly, she kicks it lightly toward the door. Then, with one more taste for luck, she breaks the kiss quickly.  
  
“Your shirt,” she tells him, then gestures with an outstretched hand. She widens the gap between them just a little.  
  
He seems addled, and she can hardly blame him, but she watches as his hands cross in front of him. He grabs the black garment by its hem and seems to consider it for an instant. Perhaps he is remembering his bare erection, the reality settling in, but she cannot read his mind. Then, with a practiced tug he pulls his shirt over his head. His own fairly flat, masculine little nipples seem hardened slightly in their own right, blood and friction not leaving them out. She smirks at that.  
  
He must note this expression because when his wrists are free, he straightens as if a little proud, even defensive.  
  
“This is what you wanted?” he confirms.  
  
She nods, not granting him another chuckle but thinking about it.  
  
He looks for footing – she sees him looking for it – of a metaphorical kind. He seems to find it in looking at her own dark pants beneath her bared chest, her flat stomach, her heavy breasts.  
  
“I'm at a disadvantage,” he suggests, glancing at her eyes to see if it's alright. It's almost a question.  
  
In answer, Touko reaches out and tugs his pants up just a little. She can see the disappointment circling like ripples in water for just a moment. She pats one of his hips, the one closer to the door, guiding him with the slightest bit of force back inside.  
  
“Get over to the sofa, take the rest of this off, and we'll fix that,” she bargains.  
  
She notices him swallow. Bracing himself. Then he nods and walks over to the sofa. He glances down at the space that is so often reserved for his work and pushes down pants and underwear efficiently. He stays bent down to rid himself of socks. He's naked by the time she casually abandons her shirt and bra by the door and comes around to the end of the couch. She looks him up and down, appreciative and evaluative. He's a bit skinny but disciplined. Hollow and young in ways she can't be anymore, even in her relative youth.  
  
He looks at her, and for a moment he is entirely lost. She can sense that they're both about to laugh at the punchline of an untold joke. She doesn't want this to devolve into that, so she lightly snaps her fingers and points.  
  
“On your back,” she explains, orders.  
  
“On my—”  
  
She sighs, rather than repeating herself.  
  
Never one to disappoint very much, Kokutou is quite quickly on his back. He fusses just a little with a throw pillow, getting it out of an uncomfortable spot and angling his head just a little with it, showing some initiative. She notes the faint dusting of hair beneath his arms, the way he squirms, the paleness of his skin – he looks almost cold. Or is it her that's cold? She forgets, trying not to tell.  
  
She tugs off her pants, stepping out of the more snug-fitting garment and baring her feet. The only thing left is her panties, plain enough with a framing of and embroidered lace pattern working down from her hips. The front and most of the form are cotton, comfortable, and not particularly conniving. She had not begun this day thinking of seducing Kokutou. The light fabric is not transparent, but she thinks if he looks closely enough he'll see that the faintest patch at a certain point has grown heavier, a bit see-through, and wet.  
  
Giving him a closer vantage point, she lets herself down onto the couch, knees planted on either side of him. She holds herself up and sits back. She watches him watching her.  
  
He glances at her panties.  
  
“Not everything is fair,” she tells him, taking a guess as to the thought that might have crossed his mind. She down over him, shutting him up with her mouth. Her breasts touch his chest and while she kisses him for entertainment, she feels some shared rhythm of their breathing. The kissing is a little slower, a little less aggressive, by the time it ends. He has started to almost keep up.  
  
She pushes up a little and has no real reason not to look him in the eye. A few strands worked free from her ponytail hang down at the side of her face. She's warmer now, she thinks – sharing heat she doesn't examine why she needs.  
  
“Touko,” he says, and she can hear the _idea_ , the worry, dawning in his voice. She resists rolling her eyes and watches him patiently. He looks away, out toward the bank of TVs. “Are you sure you want to—with me?” he asks with just enough decorum not to blurt out the words all together.  
  
In a moment of weary, abstract affection, Touko dips her head down and the tip of her nose touches against his cheek, near as she could get to his own. It seems simpler than kissing it, somehow, and more like the gentle chiding it is intended to be.  
  
“Mikiya,” she says. Taking her time, she reaches out and finds both his arms. She draws his wrists close together and grips them. She presses them up above his head but does not forcefully hold them down. She just barely leans her weight on them, and he is strong enough to get away. She wouldn't risk any of this if he wasn't. “You _never_ worry about me, okay?” she asks, reminding him more of a fact than making a deal with him. “ _Especially_ not about something like this,” she adds.  
  
“I thought it would only be right... to ask—”  
  
“That's nice, but when a woman is on top of you, you rarely need to,” Touko replies. This time she does roll her eyes a little. She jars her gentle grip on his wrists a little. She notes with bemusement how he can't help but let his eyes follow the little transfer of motion into her breasts, however incidental and unintended. She nods a little pointedly to draw his eyes back up. He obeys. “Do you want this?” she asks _him_ , instead.  
  
He watches her eyes and she sees a hundred thoughts she doesn't know the names of play out in his. She does not know him well enough to even guess at more than a dozen of them. Before, she had almost always been alone here. He closes them when he answers her, but he exhales a breath and seems calm, resigned, and she cannot bear responsibility if he is lying to some part of himself. She does not think he is because she has never known anything but the faintest idea that such a feeling could exist, and he is the healthiest person she has ever met.  
  
“I do,” he says. He nods a jerky little nod, for good measure.  
  
“Look at me,” she says. She's not hesitating. She is just asking. Telling him what to do.  
  
He does it.  
  
She nods, satisfied, and gives him another brief, nearly chaste kiss on the lips. It is almost distracted as she shifts her weight, working out getting her panties out of the way. When it is done and her last garment falls to the floor from momentarily dangling on her ankle, she resumes her position of leaning over him. She does not align their hips just yet.  
  
“Usually, you want to make sure that a woman is ready,” she tells him, almost playful. He looks at her, rapt attention with the occasional nervous glance down at the visible gap between their bodies. Her fingers thread back through his hair and grip a little, holding his eyes on hers. “Not that you need to worry about me,” she reminds him. Then she tilts her head, lips brushing his jaw. She teases lightly there, letting him feel her breath, then sucking lightly when she finds the fleshier region of his neck.  
  
“Ah,” he says, not quite a cry and not quite a word. Just a sound. Just some response to something he's never felt anything like before. She might press down a little again on his wrists.  
  
Her hands move gently down the underside of his arms, light enough to nearly tickle until they draw away at his elbows.  
  
“And just a little more,” she murmurs against his neck. “Make her want you...” she tells him, taunting and wanton in her tone, but then as she kisses down his neck, she finds that she pauses at his shoulder and its tendon. She lets him feel a gentle touch of her teeth for good measure, but feels like her eyes and mind have lost focus, gone away for a moment. It's disorienting, even letting herself wonder how on earth he made her want him without even the faintest clue. It feels like the answer is probably boring, ordinary, a little accident. It feels like the answer, if she really knew it, could make the world move.  
  
Front and center, back to his lips, she kisses them lightly again. She lingers, letting him lean into it, giving him just an instant to lead.  
  
“Are you ready?” she asks, that done.  
  
He nods, then tries to nod a little less eagerly. She feels the heat in his face.  
  
She reaches down and grasps his erection. She shifts and lowers her hips and aligns their bodies just right. Then, to get him inside, she sits up, lowering down over him in the easiest motion from this position. She does not try to hide her reaction as he slips inside her, and she knows she's wet enough. Even so, she lets her breath catch at the exquisite little _pinch_ she feels at the first moment her body stretches to accommodate him. She lowers down, then wriggles her hips a little, squirming, almost casually getting comfortable. She notices that the motion – and, in all likelihood, the feeling – has transfixed him.  
  
“Can you see without your glasses?” she asks, trying to take his mind off of it just enough that he won't immediately explode, in one way or another.  
  
“A... A little,” he says, sheepish and shy and confused into a small, nervous smile.  
  
“I'm close enough, right?” she asks, and in the same moment she gently grasps his glasses by either side, pulls them off, folds them, and sets them atop the shorter stack of papers he had left for tomorrow. She leans down, keeping him inside her, to peck his lips again. “They get foggy if you leave them on,” she explains, matter-of-fact and pitying at once.  
  
“Oh. Yeah. You wear glasses,” he says.  
  
“... On occasion,” she says, a roll of her eyes and a smirk coming hand-in-hand. Then, to grasp his attention – and more than that – she squeezes muscles deep inside herself that more than grab his attention. He widens his eyes and seems to tense as if he wants to sit up a little, but she pushes back at his shoulder. She easily lets those muscles go. “Now you just try not to lose your mind,” she advises him, playfully.  
  
He nods, wide-eyed and then blinking with his blue eyes that she's never seen without his glasses before.  
  
“Breathe,” she reminds him wryly. She very slowly starts to move, only settling into a rhythm bit by bit, knowing he needs to get used to it. She notices that his hand grasps, at nothing and at the surface of the couch. “You can touch me,” she tells him, because it's so obvious he wants to.  
  
He nods, sighing in a way that sounds almost grateful, and he reaches for her waist. It inches up her side, over her ribs, light and gentle. She has not had the luxury of being _ticklish_ in so long that the shuddered breath, the near-laugh, catches her by surprise.  
  
“Good,” she tells him with a nod when he opens his eyes wide to check. Her own close briefly when he finds her breast again. His touch there coaxes her into a rhythm if nothing else would have granted him that aching, instinctive wish.  
  
Passing time during the few moments she keeps the rhythm steady over top of him, she tilts her head and kisses his neck. He'd seemed to like that. His fingers also toy with her nipple, and she knows he likes that – and his tentative, nervous pinching is cute. His collarbones catch her eye, a little more defined than she'd noticed at first. She kisses along one, appreciating its form. Then she is less interested in form and more interested in the gentle swelling inside her. She feels faintly tighter – just faintly – in one spot, and every time she moves her body up and down over his, she feels a new little increment of satisfaction – the hypnotic scratching of an itch.  
  
“D-Don't—” comes the stammered, not particularly passionate plea. It sounds like it is taking all of his will to ask. It still startles her enough to clear her focus and look down at him, slowing her hips as she works out what he's talking about.  
  
“What are you talking about?” she asks, when she cannot quite focus well enough to figure it out.  
  
“You... tightened around me again. And if you... do that I'm going to—” he explains.  
  
So he has been paying attention. More than she has, and for a moment the flush in her body feels almost like flattery. She finds his hand and squeezes it sideways at his palm, reassuring.  
  
“I can't help it,” she informs him, all but sitting absolutely still with him fully inside her now.  
  
He blinks several times, slow, taking in that information with a pleasured parody of horror.  
  
“You can't—” he repeats, about the apologize again. She won't listen.  
  
“It's not supposed to last forever,” she explains, as gently as she can. She takes a deep breath, sighing. She glances down at where their bodies are joined. He had almost gotten lucky for his first time, too. But the moment has passed, and she knows that the recent memory, the fresh feeling of _finally_ after so long, will be more than enough after this, even if he has lost almost any hope of making her come. She plays with the hand she holds a little, thoughtfully. Then she finds his eyes again. Her breath is still a little quicker than normal when she speaks. “Do you want to finish on top?” she asks.  
  
She might as well give him the option. She doesn't put much stock in the idea that his first time is going to be all that precious, especially when it's now – irrevocably – with her. Still, she knows he is a sentimental type, and she knows he won't just forget right away at the very least. She should give him the choice, especially since her own spell is a little bit broken from his misguided act of kindness.  
  
“Do I—?”  
  
“Don't repeat everything I say, Kokutou,” she advises him. “Just decide.”  
  
“I...” He looks at her body, up and down. She thinks he is appreciating, memorizing. Then he frowns, a face of the conflicted.  
  
“If you're curious—” she prompts, trying to make him make up his mind, because she still _wants_ to feel it, and it tries a very primal point of her patience.  
  
“Alright,” he agrees, nodding.  
  
She nods, too, and slides back so he slides out of her. Then, she stands up. A trail of mingled wetness dribbles a bit down her thigh, linking up into her body, down from the wet, pink, faintly parted folds. He sits up, trying to stand, and momentarily stares.  
  
She places a hand on her hip.  
  
“That means you did a pretty good job,” she says, then gestures with a rotation of her wrist and fingers for him to hurry up. When he is on his feet, she lies back on the couch, pulls her knees up and bends them, and parts them. She gives him as much room as she can on the couch. Then, she reaches for him – for his hand, because it's simple enough, and she has no qualms with doing it. “Come here.”  
  
His erection is visibly a little slick, too. She's a bit pleased with that when he knees down below her legs and reaches for her hand, letting her coax him between them. He looks up at her as he leans down. His erection twitches and she can see his mind through it, so simple and bare.  
  
“You can do it this time,” she tells him.  
  
“If—”  
  
“Shut up, Kokutou,” she tells him, tone far more patient than the command.  
  
He catches on, surrenders to the command, to his body's needs, and reaches down to steady himself as he aligns with her body. This time, it is entirely his pace and his responsibility as he sinks into her, centimeter by centimeter, almost driving her mad with caution.  
  
Then he is settled, and she lets him stay that way, just for a second. She pulls at his hand, grabbing his attention and his eyes.  
  
“Whatever you want,” she says. “I know you well enough to know you're not going to hurt me,” she adds – words she believes, but mostly words she believes he wants to hear. “... And harder feels better, to a point,” she adds, right when he starts to gain the confidence to move, and she is enthralled with the way it makes him close his eyes tight, the way it makes him twitch inside her. She thinks it makes him press his hips a little more firmly down, too. She parts her legs wider, feeling a little pull in her hamstrings before she momentarily lets one foot slip off the couch. She lifts it back up, and for the moment it dangles in the air.  
  
Kokutou thrusts in and out of her body – never completely out of her, and she doesn't blame him. He is warm, thin, light for a man his height, and the only times he pauses, he trembles faintly. It draws her hand up to his hair again, scrubbing back, gripping, tucking its short length as best she can. She can't tell anymore – if it's compassion, need, or pity.  
  
“Touko—” he pleads, fretfully.  
  
“Do it,” she tells him, impatiently even though a part of her doesn't want it to end – because his hunger, his thrusting, his body weight has started to scratch that itch again. Forgetting selfishness, or craving it, she tightens every muscle and her resolve for a moment, determined to draw every moment of pleasure she can from it, even if it's not the last. Her toes even curl a little, one foot against the sofa, the other against nothing but air. Absently, her thumb traces the shell of his ear. “Come inside me,” she tells him, unambiguously, before he argues himself out of an orgasm.  
  
And just like almost any man just hearing it makes it inevitable. A few more hard thrusts, compulsive, helpless, and a muffled, restrained sound from his throat. She wishes he wouldn't have held that part back, but he is entirely too polite. She feels slick, sticky, and the teasing sensitivity of his movement as it slows and finally subsides.  
  
They are both breathing heavily. He cracks open his eyes, lifts his head, and seems to be coming up for air. A bit of his hair is stuck with sweat to his forehead. She fixes it automatically, squirming sympathetically against the soft, mashed knot of her ponytail behind her head. She'd forgotten about it.  
  
“You're alright,” she tells him, mildly seeking confirmation but knowing little else to tell him if, somehow, he isn't.  
  
He nods, earnestly, so that settles that.  
  
She searches for something to say that's friendly enough before she asks him to get off her, politely as she ever asks him anything.  
  
“Do you think I could call you Mikiya now?” she asks, dryly.  
  
“You already did,” he adds, finding energy enough for weak, tired laughter.  
  
“Let me up,” she orders, though a smile carries on her voice, too. “You can sleep here,” she tells him as she steps into her dampened panties for the moment and thinks through what might come next, and only in the next few hours, in her cluttered office.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first standalone lemon. Uh, you're welcome? Posted on BL first.


End file.
